


Take (her breath) Aways

by mixedwithintellect



Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, delivery boy harry styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 09:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixedwithintellect/pseuds/mixedwithintellect
Summary: the one where Y/N is ordering out more, and there's a good chance it's because of the customer serviceOR:inspired by the photo of Harry in the green 7UP jacket where he looks like a delivery boi.





	1. A Concept

Y/N  _really_  should stop ordering food online. She had a grocery store within a walkable distance from her flat, and she was pretty sure the app had been overcharging her for weeks now.

But there was something about the delivery guy, the one who brought her the food, no matter when she ordered. Ten at night, nine in the morning, or two in the afternoon, he always was the one who collected er order. Sometimes it seemed like he did it after one of his classes, his bookbag slung over his shoulder as he, out-of-breath, handed over the bag of food.

She guessed they were under-staffed or something, and that was why it was only him.

He was quiet, perhaps shy, not quite making eye contact as he handed over the bag, and she would thank him. It was always the same response, every time.

“O’course, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

 _Okay_ , so maybe he said have a nice  _night_  when the sky began to darken, or was just pitch black, but it was always the same  _type_  of response.

And then he would turn around, walk down the street, shoulders huddled against the bitter winter winds, as Y/N stayed on her doorstep for a brief moment, before turning to head back in. Sometimes he had a bike, leaning against the tree on the sidewalk, but most of the time he was walking.

It happened one night, when she had ordered Chipotle and had a chemistry exam the next morning, that she noticed something different.

“Hey,” she mumbled, and the boy froze a bit, obviously surprised their usual pattern had been interrupted, “I like your nails.” 

The bag was already in her arms and he had been about to turn away, but the new addition of their conversation had halted things. They stood in quiet for a bit as he registered what she said.

His nails had been painted black, admittedly chipped but still had a respectable amount of polish left. The guy looked down at his hand, as if having to remind himself what was on his nails, and then a smile grew on his face.

“Uh, thanks,” and shit, Y/N realized, this guy had  _dimples_ , “Name’s Harry, by the way. I like yeh shorts.”

She was wearing Mickey Mouse pajama shorts, underneath her university sweatshirt that suddenly seemed very hot and thick when he finally made eye contact with her.

“Thanks, Harry,” Y/N nodded, holding the bag a bit tighter to her chest as she smiled back. “I’m Y/N,” and he nodded, probably already knowing her name from her order, so she continued on, feeling shy underneath the streetlamp over their heads, “Have a nice night, thanks again.”

* * *

Harry walked down the street, his hands in his pockets, a huge grin plastered on his face despite the freezing temperature outside. Maybe it was worth accidentally locking himself out of his flat, which meant he’d have to call Liam and disturb his roommate’s study cram session, because he had finally spoken to Y/N, the girl on 32nd street who usually had highlighters and pens stuck in her hair, who ordered the strangest foods at the strangest hours.

One of his hands withdrew from his pocket as he took another look at his nails, humming to himself as he approached his apartment complex’s door. 

Yeah, it was worth it.


	2. A Concept Built for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where it's a bicycle but it's more than that

 

It was a bicycle.

Blue, shiny, with a black circular bell on the right handle bar and a wicker basket off the front. The wheels had all the sharp pokes as they should, but each point had become more noticeable when next to Harry’s own bike, with its run-down tires and scratched-off paint. 

“Oh, stop, it wasn’t anything,” Y/N shook her head, brushing her hair back as she tried to play it cool, while struggling to keep her take-out boxes balanced. Her eyes kept on Harry, though, watching how he was held captivated by the bike.

It  _had_  been something. It had been several months of saving up paychecks and cutting back on ordering out food (which had led Harry to believe he had been sending out wrong signals, which had upped his anxiety even  _more_ ) but it was perfect. A new bike was exactly what Harry had been talking about for months, in-between handing Y/N her box of food and saying good-bye. It was short comments about how he had taken so long because the tires weren’t full, or how his breaks sucked and he had tried to take it slow to avoid accidents or ditch-falling.

They had started to talk more to each other, on those cold nights, dank afternoons, and sometimes bright mornings. Y/N had no schedule of when she would eat Indian curry, Mexican tacos, or Jamaican wings, and Harry had no schedule to his work availability (which had proven to be disastrous when he had exam or needed to sleep to function). So the two of them would meet at odd moments of the day, catching glimpses of the other in short bursts, but never in the entirety.

“No, I mean-” he was standing motionless, before holding out his hands, “-I only bought pens. Fuckin’ pens. And yeh bought me this.”

“I love pens.” Her voice was a touch too high.

Harry’s lips pursed, his eyes scanning back and forth over the bicycle as he thought. They were stood outside of her apartment, the bike leaning against the tree right across from her brick stoop, and Harry’s old bike leaning against the fence behind. She had her box of take-out in the palms of her hand, the warmth of the food steaming against her skin. It had been an awkward transaction of trying to get Harry to realize the bike was  _his_ , it wasn’t her own that she was trying to show off, and once he had gotten it, he had immediately told her it was too much.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, he laughed. A short, breathless sort of laugh, as he raked back his hair with his fingers and readjusted his delivery jacket. The wind picked up around them, fluttering the plastic bag around her arms.

“Yeh got me a fuckin’ bike. A fuckin’…” he shook his head again, turning back to her. He looked childlike, almost, as if he were being promised something that could be taken back, like it was an intangible essence of his imagination that lay before him.

“I did,” she said, feeling somewhat like she was supposed to, like her words were more spoken to just be said, rather than heard.

“I’m gonna get yeh something else, something other than pens,” Harry continued, his eyes scanning her up and down as if the next present idea would pop out from her unshaven legs, pajama shorts, and Captain America hoodie.

“Extra oyster crackers. Next time I get soup.”

A smile cracked against his chapped lips and he laughed again.

“Extra crackers for the rest of yeh damn life, more like.”

“How about lessons in bio? I’ve got it this semester, no clue what’s going on,” Y/N shrugged, the idea _seemingly_  flickering across her mind, when it had actually been stewing there long before Harry had suggested anything. And perhaps the words were rushed enough to convey that, to someone who wasn’t so wrapped up in the threads of the moment, but Harry’s eyebrows only rose marginally.

She knew from the stack of books that had fallen out of his messenger bag once, on a particularly awful rainy night when she had a craving for Dominos, that he had taken Plant Biology last semester. Which was the science she decided to sign up for  _this_  semester - not for any reason other than it was supposed to be an easy science, a quick check-mark on her degree list.

Harry shifted his bag further up his shoulder, as if remembering the same moment, and nodded curtly.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good. I can do that. Got an A. Need yeh number. Mean, like, if I’m gonna teach yeh, I’d need something to text yeh with. But that would be my phone, I guess, but I need yeh-”

“My number?” Y/N prompted, cutting into his ramble before the flush on his cheeks reached the cherry red it was currently striving for.

Harry nodded bashfully, and as Y/N reached in her hoodie pocket to fish out her phone, his eyes fell back on the bike. 

He couldn’t believe that the girl who had once asked him to grill her on chemistry questions (provided in the ‘special instruction’ box, with about a hundred smileys following), the girl who had complimented his nail polish, the girl who had consequentially made him proud of  _himself_  for a change, the girl who bought pistachio ice cream in freezing temperatures and would sometimes buy enough for two, so Harry could take some home…this girl had bought him a fucking bicycle for Christmas.

Yeah, he was gonna give her a  _hell_  of a lot more than pens. 


End file.
